Momanguise
04-06-2005, 18:59
OOC: First of all, I thourght I'd get this buisness out of the way first. This is the start of the Momanguise civil war. If you read the following post (and please do, it took me a long time and I think I have done well on it) then most things should become clear. If you are interested in getting involved, friend and foe alike, contact me or post here. If you want to comment, please do! This took me a long time to do.
A bit of fluff to explain what comes next. Peter Goldman is a councilor on the Privy Council, the highest executive body in the nation. Morledge Greene is an officer in the Peoples Army, and the head of a plot to remove the communist state.
Now read and enjoy! Please stick with it, I know it's long, but it's a good read. Afterwoods please feel free to say how much you hated it, how sick my mind is, and why on earth I've wasted the seconds of you life reading it.
Thank you.
Momanguise
04-06-2005, 19:02
The Final Act - Chapter One
It will have blood, they say: blood will have blood.Macbeth
Greene's fist flew into the mans face, cracking hard against the jawbone. A small well of blood swelled inside his mouth, and chocking hard he could feel its warmth finding its way down his cheek. Greene frowned, his hand vaguely pulsating from the blow, and he coolly flexed his fingers inside his moleskin gloves as he paused, watching the pathetic figure in front of him gag and wretch. When he spoke his voice slid easily from his mouth, a calm wave falling upon a broken shore. “You are a liar, Goldman. You spit these…these petty fabrications to me as if I were a dumb commoner! Speak!”
Goldman did not speak. A dull ringing in his ears and the throbbing pain in his head had numbed his thoughts, but one thing remained clear to him. The oath. Though it had been years, decades since he swore himself to the Council, the oath remained in his head. I swear myself to the Council, ne’er to betray it’s trust. The seas recede, the mountains fall, and the devil himself may come, yet I will hold fast to this rock, ere’ my life be done. This recollection gave him strength, and he slowly raised his head, and spat in Greene’s face.
Greene paused, gazing for a long time at the shackled, kneeling man. Fool, he thought, no options to play yet he holds to whatever hope he can. Idiot. He calmly wiped the phlegm from his cheek. In the silence that followed, he waited until Goldman lowered his spiteful gaze. Good, he thought, he shows fear. He hit him once. And then again. And then again. When the blows had subsided, Goldman had fallen to the side, blood mixing with the bitter tears on his face. Excruciating pain gripped him in spasms, his right eye blinded. From his left, blinking blood from his eye, he could make from the dimming darkness of the room, Greene’s tall figure. His hateful, tormenting voice carried, as if from a great distance, a mocking sing song that burned into his head. “You will tell me,” said Greene, “you will reveal this to me.” He paused, almost as in a deliberation as to his next move. His next torture. “Everyman has a weakness, Goldman” he went on, pacing the room, “It is only a matter of guessing yours.”
A pause. A long silence. Goldman closed his remaining eye to his tormentor and wept bitter tears of hatred and unending self-pity. In the fear and uncertainty that followed, a resolution was almost demanded. Greene supplied one.
“Get him up” he hissed, and two soldiers moved forward and, grabbing Goldman by his shoulders forced him to his knees. Greene walked forwards, each step deliberated. He could see the fear in the mans eyes, smell it in the rank odour of his spilt urine. He knelt down himself, looking the man in his eyes. His lip curled. “I will give you a final chance, Goldman” he sang, “a final chance to save yourself from your downfall. Tell me. Now.”
Goldman glanced up. A word played upon his lips. He was about to reveal it and then … nothing. Greene chuckled, flexing his glove. Goldman flinched from what he could only imagine was another blow. Greene however, had a greater imagination than that. He turned to the man behind him, and whispered in his ear. “Bring her in.”
The doors swung open, and the soft falling of bare feet echoed through the small room. From the darkness a plaintive cry rang out, and the footsteps broke into a run. “Papa!” It cried, “papa!”
Goldman broke into a cold sweat as the slow feeling of absolute dread engulfed him. This wasn’t possible! This was wrong! I had sent her away, he repeated in his head, she was safe. Suddenly a body had flung itself onto his, someone else’s tears mingled with his own as his warm blood smeared on a pearly white gown. “My princess” he spluttered, “my darling girl.” The pain was too great, and instead his head lolled forward onto her shoulder. His hands secured behind his back, her arms clasped around him, the knelt, a painful, loving embrace.
Greene smiled from the shadows. This was exactly the reaction he had expected. Selfish men love their gold, their work and their future, he mused. Good men love their family. And good men are always easier to manipulate. “Stand away girl,” he said. No reaction. She remained in implacable solitude. Greene sighed and pulled out a pistol, firing once into the ceiling. She started like a disturbed animal, falling away from her father, shaking and blind. Greene roughly hauled her to her feet, but as he did so she suddenly fought like a tiger, fingers flailing and small fists flying. Greene held by the shoulders, and slapped her lightly in the face. Her slowed, and then remained, wide eyed and trembling. The girl was absolutely petrified. Good.
“Shush child,” he lulled, “silence, and I won’t use the gun again.” He held her till the whimpering subsided, and she remained still, routed by her terror. Her eyes flashed a terrified glance at him as he spoke, his voice in the tone of a hushed lullaby. “What is your name child?” Greene asked, his own eyes impenetrable dark pebbles.
“Hannah” she spluttered, “my name’s Hannah.” Greene kept the pistol trained on her head, “Hannah” he breathed. “Hannah. A good Jewish name.” He stepped forward, and with a soft gloved hand slowly caressed her cheek. “You have a beautiful child Goldman, how old is she? Twelve? Thirteen? Old enough.” he chuckled, his back to the bleeding man on the floor, his voice dropping and his eyes narrowed into dark wet slits, “you would not want to see her die would you?”
This is not happening. Goldman’s head rocked backwards and forwards, bent as in a grotesque prayer. What precarious hold on life that he still grasped was slipping away, yet his bastard tormentors voice held him, tethered to life. Make it quick, he thought, make it quick. His child’s face surfaced in his mind, calling, screaming. He gritted his teeth, the end would come soon, he told himself, it would end with a sudden pistol shot…a merciful killing. Let it happen, he thought, oh G-d let it happen…
The silence remained. Goldman awaited a sound, a gunshot that would herald the death of his only daughter. Nothing. He trembled as he raised his head, and winced as he slowly opened his wounded solitary eye. What he saw almost made him sick, Greene had pulled her closer to him, kissing her on her cheek, her lips, one hand holding the struggling child whilst the other…
“Alright!” he spat, his voice choked with blood and pain. Greene let a slow smile spread over his face, he had been right. This pathetic creature had his flaws, and his secrets did come at a price. Goldman was sobbing, his balding head bathed in sweat as he said the word again, this time low on his hoarse voice. Capitulation. Greene pushed the girl away from him, pulled out a palm top computer and lowered himself to Goldman.
The two stared at each other for a long time. Goldman could feel a pained exuberance of exhausted hatred towards his attacker, his tormentor. What Greene felt, he could not imagine. Perhaps behind those cold grey eyes lay nothing, no emotion or empathy. After all, the definition of humanity did not extend merely to flesh and blood. Whatever lay within those silent pools, he could not comprehend, and could not begin to fathom their depths. Greene handed Goldman the palmtop, and watched as he laboriously typed in the usernames, passwords, counter passwords, biometric scans…this was the moment that he had plotted for a decade for, the moment that he had hinged his fate upon. And then it was done. In Goldman’s shaking hand lay the keys to eternity.
Calmly, like a statesman receiving a humble offering, he stooped and took the machine. And there in his hand lay the entire information matrix of Momanguise, every secret uncovered, every lever of power prepared. He let out a quick breath of excitement, of gratification, as endorphins pulsated through his body. He was euphoric, he was already the emperor of Momanguise, of N.A.T.O, of the entire world! Release was like a climax, an orgasm. He could do anything! He sharp eyes cast around the dimmed room, his servants…they knew too much, and would be disposed of later. The girl…well, he grinned, he had special plans for her. And then Goldman…
His sense of victory vanished. Any emotion deadened itself. There was a final act that had to be attended too. Both men looked into each others eyes, knowing what was coming. Goldman offered up a silent prayer in his last moments on earth. Greene pulled his pistol, took careful aim and shot him once between the eyes.
The girl screamed and ran towards her father, Goldman lunged at her, tackling her to the ground. Her fingers were scratching him in the face, and he swore as her knee connected with his groin. He tried to grasp her clothing, one outstretched hand groping for her throat. Her swore loudly as her teeth sank into his knuckles, and in that moment of instant reaction , rooted deep within the roots of the primeval brain, the pistol in his left hand exploded.
Shaking, a cold sweat on his face, he hoisted himself to his feet. The bullet had sank below her chest, into the tender stomach area. Already, a deep crimson stain was spreading across her white gown, her breathing going into hyperventilation as the intense shock set in. He looked one last time at the perfect thing that he had destroyed, a beautiful, dying creature on a cold stone floor. He looked away as he put a final bullet into her head.
There were a few small matters to address. The room would have to be burnt, after being scrubbed for forensic evidence. His contacts in the press and the army would mock up a convincing explanation for Peter Goldman and his daughter’s deaths. Those others who had witnessed the events tonight would have to be removed. And the palm top in his pocket…well. That had further purposes, wheals that would have to be set in place immediately.
Greene allowed himself a momentary grin. All in all, everything had gone to plan. Goldman was dead. His daughters demise was unfortunate, but collateral was to be expected. Soon the coup itself would be put into place. Soon the entire world would know the name of Morledge Greene.
As his team was beginning to remove the incriminating traces from the scene, he burst through the doors of the chamber out onto a bustling street. The cold, fresh air filled his lungs, and after the events of the knight he felt renewed and alive. He checked his watch, two minutes to ten. Right on queue, his cell phone rang. “Yes General,” he said in an undisguised tone, “yes. The mark is dead. The revolution is in place. It has begun.”
Smiling, he threw the phone away, waiting for the sound of water. Laughing deeply, first to himself, then to the world, he strode into the darkness.
It had begun.
Within a normal piece of mail, sent by the powers that be from a post box in Momanguise to a post box in another part of Momanguise, from there carried to the airport by an unassuming janitor and given to a pilot in a newspaper... a simple card, nothing to suspect, nothing to worry any observer.
Had that observer read the card, she would have found nothing more then the normal sentences of a cousin to another cousin, words merrily spilling across the page willy-nilly and such, saying little but saying much.
A good cryptographer would have found nothing on the page, or in the page, or in the stamp, or in the envelope, for - indeed - there was nothing to find.
The key was found in the ink.
A simple trick, juvenile on many levels, but nonetheless very effective in getting a message across.
Far away from Momanguise, the encoded words were decyphered, decoded, unlocked. A message spilled out from one computer to another, to be printed on yet more paper and delivered to the office of Nasiri Yassassin, the Sultan's most private advisor.
For the last eight hundred years, give or take a century.
The message was read, considered. The import of it weighed heavilly - the recent upheaval in Sigma Octavius, the fall and rise of Euroslavia, the revolution in IDF, coup and counter-coup in AMF - all were considered deeply.
When an answer was given, it was sent in a normal bottle of beer - nothing to notice, nothing to worry about. The brand was mediocre, the maker a small brewer in Jamaica Reborn. It could be found the world around, and never make an impression.
The bottle made its way back, then to a garbage can, and from there to a janitor who took it out with the trash and drank it on her break, leaving the bottle in the trash...
But taking the cap.
Back home, a message was uncovered, decoded, read. Orders were understood, passed on.
The HSI - reaver of four nations, saviour of so many more - would only watch from the shadows.
For now.
North of Imperium, Republic of New Britain
The spacious library listened intently to the crackling, to the popping, to the hissing of the logs consumed in flames that lit the plush chairs and sofas in intermittent bursts of bright light. In front of the warm fire sat a group of men, at the center a gaunt man topped by a head of wavy blond hair, a small glass of scotch sitting in his palm. On the cherry table in front of him lay a set of maps, and a few diagrams and schematics, a few locales and important points circled in red pen.
“Gentlemen,” he began in a calm voice, consistent with a man whose thoughts at that very moment lay months ahead of the current moment, “we stand at an important time in the Kingdom, yet we stand on the sidelines. Alistair runs the government at will. With his majority in Parliament, he can enact whatever legislation he desires, he can enter into any treaties he desires. He can lead this nation to ruin if he desires.” He paused for a moment, and brought to front a document with small bars of green decreasing period after period into the red.
“And he is.”
“But Daniel, what you speak of is madness.” A diminutive man, hair receding white strand by white strand, leaving nothing but a shining bald mass to complement the reflection off the thick glass lenses well set in the brown plastic frames. “We all know Alistair; he is not willingly leading the Kingdom to ruin.”
To this statement a chorus of mutterings crept into the study, all dismissed quickly by the gaunt man’s long slim fingers. “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he half-implored, knowing their silence was guaranteed. “As Prime Minister, Alistair must be wholly responsible for every action he takes as the leader of this great nation. If we continue these military operations, if we continue this aggressive expansion we will surely meet our match, and perhaps our end.” Again he waved his hand as the mutterings of concern welled up from the men. “Gentlemen, I merely state the fact that we will in due time reach the maximum extent of our foreign deployments. And as you can see here, our economic security is at stake. Our population continues to rise, and yet the Tetley administration does nothing but engage in half-hearted attempts to enter into what they call “fruitful” trade negotiations. Look at what he’s done. He sends our forces to places like this,” he pulled out a political map of the United Kingdom and her colonies. “To places like the Verdant Archipelago. A land of a few mere cities, with land ripe for the taking, and yet he secures only three islands for development.”
“But we have the city of Avinapolis, it’s prospering from the maritime trade between the two nations.”
“Geoffrey, you represent the Andaman and Nicobar Republic, of course you see the benefit in Avinapolis. The point is that much more could have been accomplished, but instead we have only one real city when we could have had the entire island chain. In Juristan we have a sliver of land, true it can safely hold hundreds of millions, but we could have had significantly more. Lindim could have been pushed to give us more land. Datria. The list, gentlemen, goes on without end. Our forces are deployed to multiple nations, and yet we secure no new territory to which we can shift the emphasis of our rapid and rampant population growth. We need this pattern to change and change quickly.”
The group of men continued to sit and discuss legislative strategies, eventually moving on into broader philosophies and as the alcohol reached out to the various systems the talk devolved from intellectual studies to that of common sports and leisure activities. In the midst of a discussion of the nearing Portsmouth Regatta a low rumble shook the house. The gaunt man looked up and out the large plate window overlooking the cliff and the tumultuous sea beneath, the night sky far darker over at sea, both the moon and the stars entirely gone.
“The storm approaches, gentlemen. I suggest we part our company here while the roads remain dry and safe for our drivers.”
A smatter of raucous chuckles consumed the now dying fire. The men all stood and reached for their overcoats on the tall pole by the French doors as they stumbled out of the marble floored reception area to the collection of imported luxury cars and limousines. They exchanged handshakes and resolved to see each other at the beginning of the coming week in the capital as Parliament would again meet to discuss its various issues. As they all left the gaunt man, who owned the mansion, turned to walk around the veranda to face the cliff-side view as pale shades of lilac lit the horizon. The storm approached, and would soon swallow the whole his estate, and soon after the capital of the United Kingdom laying further south in its path.